


Dog Days

by moonlighten, Nekoian



Series: Grand Design [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-09 23:05:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/778999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlighten/pseuds/moonlighten, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nekoian/pseuds/Nekoian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>January 2013: Scotland and Scotland are looking into their mirrors. One mirror is beginning to crack, while the other becomes clearer and more difficult to look at.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**January, 2013; Edinburgh, Scotland**

  
  
France proves his ultimate indifference towards Scotland as he always does, blatantly and in public.  
  
He seeks out what appears to be more interesting fare across the room, engaging Other-Scotland’s mates in some form of cheerful light hearted banter. It doesn’t help that Other-France sometimes takes the time to wander in Scotland’s direction and enquire as to his well being with what he recognises as pity.  
  
Not because he’s too familiar with it while France is wearing it, but because Wales earns a fair amount of it from other people.  
  
“Are you sure you don’t want to come and sit with us?” Other-France asks again, his head turning towards Other-Scotland – who’s slightly indisposed by the landlord, it seems – and finding a faint smile that was absent while his back was set towards the man.  
  
Scotland does like Other-Scotland – to a degree; he’s sort of like if Scotland himself was a bit more talkative and less disposed towards smacking Wales around – but a part of him despises his alternate when the Frances are anywhere nearby.  
  
He lets Other-France know this by glaring intensely at his glass and making a noise. It’s a fairly menacing noise from what Scotland can decipher judging by the nervous edging away taken by the red-faced youth next to him, who’s maintained near perfect silence and an inability to move since Scotland chose to sit down.  
  
Other-France isn’t intimidated at all by this and just casts him what looks to be a scolding expression and a soft frown.  
  
Scotland feels his whole body go slack as guilt ultimately takes over, his desire to merely scare away the source of his discomfort blindsided by his weakness for any France-shaped creature in the room.  
  
He realises far too late that such a thought has triggered his instinctive desire to set alight anything that might come between him and his own France using nothing but the hypothetical flintiness of his eyes and raw untapped fury.  
  
He especially doesn’t like this creature called ‘James’ who France and Wales have taken a bit of a shine to. He’s a lanky streak of piss who Scotland faintly knows from his rounds at the footy. On closer inspection he appears to combine all of Ireland’s wiriness – without any of the social charm – with Scotland’s outward appearance. His shock of red hair and blue eyes had startled Scotland slightly, because he doesn’t remember seeing that combination on anybody else so close before.  
  
Not that he ever pays attention. Not unless France starts to pay attention at some point before him.  
  
Then Scotland’s attention heads back in Other-France’s direction, his mouth pursed gently. What he could possibly be thinking is beyond Scotland, but he senses a small wince when France rests his hand on another bloke's arm and squeezes it gently. It’s a simple, harmless movement that Scotland is finely attuned to.  
  
If Other-France didn’t happen to be right there he might make a point of wandering over and making somebody suffer for whatever it is Scotland finds objectionable. He can’t quite verbalise it, can’t quite grasp it, but his anger rises fresh and causes his neighbour to once again scuttle a few feet away from him because his hand is starting to tighten dangerously around the pint glass he’s holding and it’s begun to shake slightly.  
  
He releases it before the flimsy thing can shatter completely and ruin his borrowed clothing more than the strain of his body already has.  
  
“If you change your mind…” Other-France shakes his head and eases himself away – much to the ire of Scotland’s bar mate, who seemed happy that Other-France was actively diverting all Scotland’s attention elsewhere.  
  
Scotland nods in agreement, trying to look like he’ll genuinely consider it. He’s not fooling anyone.  
  
It only takes five minutes, however, before a second person dares to enter his personal space. He can tell who it is by a finely honed radar that automatically senses all the people Scotland not only dislikes but can easily overpower; the latter list is a large one, though he doesn’t hate as many people as he thinks he really should.  
  
James looks a little nervous about the confrontation, putting on a terrible act of waiting to be served while eyeing Scotland sidelong and drumming his fingers on the bar counter. The thinly-shaped man seems to work up his bravery with a deep breath before striding over, head held high but growing meeker as he gets within striking range.  
  
The skinny redhead swallows hard and clears his throat, “Your name is Angus, right?” The question sounds suitably awkward, as if James knows Scotland’s name full well and just can’t think of anything better to open with.  
  
Scotland ignores him, hoping he might go away if the coldness of his shoulders is low enough.  
  
James doesn’t go away, he just ups his volume slightly. “Aly’s cousin? You know, I never knew he had cousins till now.”  
  
Scotland allows his eyes to wander towards the man, his first thought being that he’s well within striking distance and that he’d certainly break easily enough if Scotland were to find reason to lash out. Which he already has, in the form of the overly amused Frenchman sitting on the other side of the bar. “Do you want something?”  
  
James’ brow begins to sweat, likely because he hasn’t actually heard Scotland’s voice till now and wasn’t quite prepared to be acknowledged. His eyes flick towards Other-Scotland in the same way a child might eye a cherished blanket, one designed to hide under lest the monsters come.  
  
“I was just, sort of, interested.” James carries on, slowly sinking into the seat beside Scotland and trying to sound amiable. “I mean, Aly is my mate, after all, and any family of his is, you know, a friend of mine?”  
  
“We’re not friends.” Scotland then gets back to his pint, blinkering himself from the violence he’s so tempted to commit.  
  
James sits in silence but Scotland can feel the man’s mind work around the problem in the same way he’s sometimes sensed Ireland doing. The difference being that Ireland never shows a spat of fear unless he needs you to witness it. James however might as well shit his pants right now and be done with it.  
  
“Maybe not now, but you seem like a…” James eyes Scotland, each descriptive word he’s thinking forming neatly on his easily-read features but translating to a less than honest sounding: “Nice bloke.”  
  
Scotland offers him an indignant look that seems to inspire a sense of shame in the lad, because he quickly amends it out to: “And I was hoping to ask you a few things.”  
  
“What things?”  
  
“Like, where are they?” James motions all around him. “I thought you were all spending the holidays together.”  
  
What Scotland feels soon after that is a distant rising of his hackles, one that helps him shift his weight and lock onto James a little more intensely than he’d bothered to up till now. This appears to be misread by James as a sign of interest in the discussion, because he instantly seems to embolden, almost relaxing.  
  
“They’re not here.”  
  
“Yes, I noticed.” James shifts his arse around in his seat and sets his eyes on the way his fingers slowly intertwine. “I was just wondering where they’d all gone, things seem really quiet without them.”  
  
“They’re with his lot.” Scotland rocks his head stoutly towards Other-Scotland who chooses that moment to casually slide his arm around Other-France, causing all of Scotland’s bile to rise within his system and to once again feel his eyes swim towards France, who’s showing far too much interest in some other bloke’s day job.  
  
“Right.” James nods, as if he’s getting slowly closer to the crux of the matter, almost seizing the answer to his question from Scotland’s tightly clenched jaw. “So your brother Llewellyn is with Dylan?  
  
It’s a massive leap of logic to Scotland’s mind, far too specific and hitting upon a nerve he hadn’t realised was so close to the surface of his skin. “Aye,” he says, feeling his suspicious mind circle around like a wild cat might stalk a small bird. “What of it?”  
  
“He just seemed nice. That’s all.” James shrugs.  
  
Scotland recognises the expression though, something he remembers seeing on the face of somebody he used to know. Something he thought he’d never have to deal with again and the realisation of it, the formation of the memory in the back of his mind sends his hand out faster than he intends it too.  
  
His fingers interweave with the fabric of James’ collar, easily pulling the man off his stool with two of his fingers and flashing him a firm look of warning that’s designed to terrify anyone without the capacity to actually fight back.  
  
“If you so much as look at him funny, I’ll end you.” Then Scotland’s fingers unwind, causing the sleeker man to collapse heavily back into his stool, looking so stunned as to have missed every word of Scotland’s dire warning.  
  
A warning that Scotland realises, wasn’t even referring to Wales at all. Merely the trigger to something a little baser. A little more jealous.  
  
Sadly, however, the display doesn’t go ignored. One of James’ other mates instantly marches over. He looks only a little drunk and his lips immediately pull away to show a set of rather lopsided teeth. “Oi, the fuck are you playing at?”  
  
Other-Scotland eyes the scene, apparently feeling the need to supervise it without actively taking part. Whether he actually saw the whole thing isn’t something Scotland knows. He merely gets to work eyeing up the ballsy fucker who now separates him from a man he no longer has a desire to manhandle.  
  
It occurs to Scotland that damaging anybody else isn’t really worth his time, there’s no real challenge to be had in it and petty demonstrations of strength are something he’s long left to the eager hands of Northern Ireland.  
  
James blinks heavily at him, as if surprised that he hasn’t lost more teeth or blood already – he’s either startled or braver than Scotland assumed he was – and Scotland shifts back to his quiet, almost blank state with a brief explanation of, “Nothing that matters to you,” before he turns back towards the bar and almost lifts his glass.  
  
He’s interrupted from doing so by the familiar feeling of a hand snagging onto his shoulder. “You can’t just come in here and mess with my mates, you big ginger fucker.”  
  
Seeing as that sounded like a challenge, Scotland slowly rises to his feet and turns, finding himself almost a solid foot over the head of James’ knight in shining – or more accurately, plaid – armour. His eyes widen as the sheer size of Scotland finally hits him now that he’s up close and not sitting hunched over the bar.  
  
The man utters a familiar, terrified sounding whimper of, “Jesus Christ.”  
  
“I recommend you sit your arse down,” Scotland coaxes him. “I’m not interested in damaging anybody.” He leaves off the ‘yet’ but feels it ring through his whole gritty utterance.  
  
The bloke, however, seems to weigh up his chances and apparently comes to the conclusion that he might just be able to frighten Scotland if he merely straightens up a bit and glares. “You should have thought of that before you came in here.”  
  
Scotland senses the fist before a chance is even given for it to be aimed at him and his instinctive response is to clench his own hand up and swiftly load it with a dose of potential energy that he’ll aim accordingly. Not hard enough to injure badly, just enough to make his point.  
  
“Angus!” France’s voice seems to fill the entire bar, halting Scotland’s fist as if he might be more voice-activated robot than he is human being. “Stop that this instant.”  
  
Scotland feels himself wedge into position, tight, restricted and incapable of resisting.  
  
He releases the man’s clothing from his fingers, dropping him back onto the heels of his feet. His wide and staring eyes flicker distantly with panic and relief at the lack of morbid pain.  
  
It’s not that Scotland finds himself focusing on; it’s the angry downward curve to Frances face that locks him up. The embodiment of how he’d once looked when Scotland first announced his sad denouncement of the catholic faith, and he’d ended up crawling to Ireland for comfort because France had torn apart the alliance they’d once held onto so tightly.  
  
Scotland must look distantly frightened by the display, because he can sense the ripple of amusement circle the room at the sight of a man as big as himself literally cowering from one wispy little Frenchman.  
  
France doesn’t even give him the decency to carry on glaring; he just gets back to the job of swirling the wine around in his glass, as if Scotland doesn’t exist. The only trace of emotion he displays is a distant disinterest and unhappiness at being interrupted.  
  
It’s only then that Scotland feels something start to twist in his chest. Something that stops him from moving again despite how the world around him returns to normal.  
  
For the first time he realises what he is, and the ability to put it into words causes his shoulder to sink, to collapse and crumble. To become the smallest he thinks he’s ever been. He can’t see himself, but he feels it.  
  
He knows exactly what he is.  
  
He’s a dog. A stupid farm dog that always does as it’s told and returns to its master regardless of how hard it works, pleased only to be fed and watered and little more. Wagging the pathetic stump where its tail used to be, removed so it can’t possibly tangle in the equipment.  
  
His immobility does seem to provoke concern, if only from the wary eyes of James and Other-France. It’s James however who slowly rises to his feet and tilts on his axis, his frown one of mild concern regardless of the ill treatment he’d been subjected to. “You alright?” James makes a point to waggle his hand in front of Scotland’s eyes. He must have actually been startled enough to stop blinking.  
  
Scotland feels a surge of energy rattle down his spine as his muscles start to loosen. His hand rubs at the back of his neck, then at the area of stubble where his beard had resided before he’d caved in to Frances demands of shaving it off.  
  
Without looking at James he feels his mouth open, a despondent sounding, “No,” falling out of his mouth as he drops himself onto his seat again.  
  
“I’m not alright.”

 

* * *

 

  
When France’s hand drifts across the bed sheets, his first instinct is to grab hold of Scotland; to hide from the interfering lights that manage to sneak in through the crack in the curtains. His rumbled, half-hearted coo for Scotland to either scoot closer – his hulking form is a better buffer from all visual stimuli than anything else France has ever found – or close the curtains properly like he should have done a while ago.

His hand hits nothing but cold, empty sheets and France first unrolls himself from his defensive position at the edge of the bed, enjoying the space before rising wearily and double checking that Scotland hasn’t merely shrunk in the time between them going to bed and now.

The digital clock – which flickers slightly and makes a soft, sick sounding hum – tells France that only an hour has passed, the fluorescent green TWELVE THIRTY the only real company as it appears that Scotland has managed to either fade into nothingness or leave the room without waking him.

Which one is the more likely is up for lengthy discussion, as Scotland is neither light-footed nor small enough that he’d have been eaten out of existence so quickly.

Against France’s natural instinct to go immediately back to bed, he finds himself rising and exiting the room, his feet managing to find the areas that cause the least amount of squeaking all but once.

He finds Scotland in the kitchen, staring out at the moon with a cigarette in one hand and a mug of tea in the other.

“What on earth are you doing up?” France asks, dragging his hand through hair that’s only starting to look unkempt. His feet lament the choice not to pull on a pair of socks. Somehow the floor of Other-Scotland’s house retains the wicked coldness of Scotland’s own.

Scotland exhales heavily, plumes of smoke rising around his badly scarred frame, catching the sliver of moonlight that creeps in through the window and making France shudder slightly. Scotland’s sheer size always manages to intimidate him a little, regardless of the man no longer being as powerful a country as he used to be.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Scotland says, his already deep growl of a voice made all the gravellier by what appears to be too much smoking and a hint of tiredness. His head tilts, the slice of light cast down his nose make it seem sharp and pointed, the cleft in Scotland’s chin seem deeper and more pronounced. “You?”

France avoids answering, but only because he’s unclear as to why he ended up wandering down here in the first place. He answers with a shrug before clutching his fingers into the fabric of his borrowed t-shirt. The design is hideous, but the added warmth it provides makes it indispensable.

Scotland is happy to wander around in his boxers, seemingly confident enough that nobody else would rise to catch him in such a position. How he can even stand to have the cold air prickle at his flesh is likely not worth thinking about. Scotland’s skin has always been as tough as old leather even if its sensitivity to sun is a real problem.

Scotland’s eyes focus on France, a feeling that makes France tingle slightly. He’s always imagined that while Scotland certainly isn’t the brightest man in existence, he’s one of the most intuitive. It’s a sense of vulnerability that France can’t stand and he makes his eyes start to harden in response, trying to shut the larger man out as much as possible.

There isn’t much of a wrestle between them. Scotland backs down almost immediately, choosing to slowly crane his neck back towards the window and flick the built up ash into the sink.

“I was thinking about them two.” Scotland sounds a little brittle as he gets to the point as France remembers him almost always doing. Yet he’s not quite so self-assured as usual and it pulls on France’s insides, as if his heart is pawing gently at his ribcage. “Francis and Alasdair.”

“Is that so?” The slickness in France's voice is automatic, helping him dismiss the things he’s seen here. To distance himself and imagine they’re merely among new friends and not peering headlong into a foggy funhouse mirror.

Scotland doesn’t commit himself to whatever he was going to say, instead he inhales the rest of his cigarette – it’s a feat, as there was a fair amount of it – and sighing again. “It’s just strange.” The smoke pours from Scotland’s nostrils and almost fills the whole kitchen.

France opts towards putting on the kettle and blotting out the more complicated elements of what he’s learned. He’s still coming to terms with the fact that magic exists – not only that, but it also appears to hold everything together – and can’t allow himself to think much past that.

“Alasdair is an interesting man.” France allows himself a complimentary smile at the image of the man in his head. His being the one France had imaged Scotland would resemble when he was younger, more foolish and apt to throw himself into Scotland’s arms because he was brash, impulsive and exciting.

Now he’s just a lumbering giant, one who earns frightened faces and makes France cringe, because he can never quite justify staying at Scotland’s side. Not that he has much desire to. Not beyond the feeble ties of history and the remnants of something that was broken a good many years ago.

“Very interesting.” The softness of Scotland’s tone is at odds with the way he stabs the butt of his cigarette against the grubby glass of the ashtray. The cigarette is immediately replaced with another, lit as if a high wind might extinguish the feeble flame of the lighter, which looks miniscule in the hands of both Scotlands.

It gets thrown aside with a fit of ill temper, the kind France is starting to realise is almost always in correlation to discussion about Other-Scotland.

“Do you prefer him?” Scotland says suddenly, his face hidden from view by shadows and tightly arched shoulders.

“What are you talking about, _Ecosse_?” France teases the scolding tone into his voice, because such jealous fits tire him out.

Instead of backing down Scotland turns, their eyes meeting, and the chill that develops there is one that France almost seeks to warm up with a swift brush of his fingers and a promise of physical passion if Scotland only stops scaring the smaller, more human part of him.

Or at least, uses that bulk to its best effect, with the lights off and no words being spoken.

“Do. You. Prefer. Him?” The words are spoken slowly, as if France might be especially ignorant and childish, and France feels offended by the very insinuation behind such a question.

But despite himself, France can’t find the answer he knows he wants to makes himself say. That he doesn’t prefer Other-Scotland’s more handsome face, his positive attitude and less icy exterior. That the slightly less colossal shoulders and warmer eyes do appeal to him more.

That he would indeed like to be in the shoes of Other-France.

His face seems to answer for him, because Scotland straightens up and marches away, leaving nothing but a trail of smoke and an awkward, murky atmosphere behind him. Sadly, Scotland’s feet are not light, nor do his hands take any care when he throws open the front door and closes it behind him with an almighty thud.

The hinges seem to put up with this treatment even though the hinges on France’s nerves take a nasty rattle.

He feels like something is starting to slip away from his control. A control he desperately needs, because Scotland is far too big and strong to allow away from the carefully tightened leash France has managed to keep him on all these years.

While he toys with the idea of following, he simply gets to work making his coffee – it will hinder his ability to sleep, but his system demands caffeine – then he plucks up the tattered looking box of cigarettes and inserts one into his mouth, lighting it without his usual sense of guilt at never being able to quit despite inflated claims of being able to at any time he pleases.

“Are we being robbed?” Other-Scotland’s voice is low and annoyed sounding. How France managed to miss him only becomes clear when the other man steps from the gloom of the corridor.

“I’m sorry about _Ecosse_.” France hears the bile in his own words; it rises and makes his teeth bare. “He has no consideration for anyone.”

He then turns on his heel and pours himself out a cup of coffee. It’s a move designed only to hide the ugly creases of his brow and even uglier expression.

The silently-made offer to make the man tea is accepted with a tired-looking smile, one that almost pleads for escape. The larger man slowly starts to look a little helpless, as if the thick smoky air has betrayed the layer of malevolence lurking beneath.

It forces France to pull a bright smile onto his face, to soften the situation and make it more to his liking. It’s a level of self control he’s mastered, and feels the smile become genuinely warm as soon as Other-Scotland ceases to look like a drowning puppy and instead gets to work examining the room.

“Angus is…?”

“Outside,” France says, gently squeezing the water from the teabag before accepting the milk that Other-Scotland helpfully hands out. “It’s where animals belong,” he adds, though the joke does summon afresh for him the throbbing memory of how he’d had to stop Scotland from doing damage to the poor unfortunates in the bar.

It makes him slow his stirring and pass Other-Scotland his mug.

The man regards France carefully – or, it looks careful in this poor light – before his eyes skim towards the now half-empty box of cigarettes. His mouth opens, perhaps to ask if Scotland is alright, or invisible, but stops himself.

“Tell him to keep the fucking noise down,” is all his says before a silent thanks for the tea is offered and he disappears from the scene as quickly as he came, his tea in hand, presumably to be sipped at in bed.

France quickly decides to follow suit, because the cold and miserable feeling in his gut gets worse as the sounds of the house creaking and bending around him grows far too loud. Much too scary, and the temptation of warm bedding to hide under is much too difficult to resist.


	2. Chapter 2

**January, 2013; Edinburgh, Scotland**  
  
  
Scotland moves through the bedroom – somewhat ironically, given his reasons for leaving it – like a thief, his tread uncharacteristically light as he negotiates the patches of moon-cast shadow which darken the path between door and bed.  
  
France sits up when he nears, placing a pillow at his back to soften the bite of the roughly carved headboard behind him. “The intruders were kind enough to make you a cup of tea before they left, I see,” he says, nodding towards the mug Scotland’s carrying.  
  
The joke seems to fall a little flat. Scotland lets out a single, short gasp of laughter, but then proceeds to treat the statement as though it had been a genuine observation. “I think it was a peace offering,” he says, coming to a halt just beyond the reach of France’s arm, “seeing as though they turned out to be Angus and Alain.”  
  
France hadn’t expected anything else. He nods, and then flicks back the duvet on Scotland’s side of the bed, hoping to encourage him to slide beneath it more quickly. The sheets have grown chilled during his brief absence, and Scotland’s body seems to throw out more heat than even the radiators he refuses to turn on, which does help to make his obstinacy in that regard a little easier to bear.  
  
Usually, Scotland would need no such enticements, but there’s something about the rigidity of his stance which suggests he’s planted himself quite firmly in place. Indeed, he shows no inclination to move, even when France ups the ante and pats the mattress beside him.  
  
It’s behaviour odd enough to be almost unprecedented, and worries France enough to ask, “What’s the matter, _mon coeur_?”  
  
He shuffles himself to the very edge of the bed so he can lay a solicitous hand on Scotland’s bare arm. Even though the room is freezing cold, Scotland only starts shivering at the touch.  
  
“I…” Scotland begins, but even though his throat works and his mouth opens and closes, he doesn’t seem able to speak. He cradles his tea to his chest like a child, and breathes, slow and deep, as though trying to calm himself.  
  
So France waits in silence – Scotland’s words can be skittish things sometimes; easily chased away by the presence of others – and eventually his patience is rewarded.     
  
“You thought I was a barbarian, didn’t you?” Scotland asks without looking at him, his voice as creaky as an unoiled hinge. “Back when you first met me?”  
  
Everything about Scotland was rough back then – his voice, his braided hair, his clothes and his behaviour – only showing any hint of refinement when he fought, as sinuous and graceful as a hunting cat.  
  
“A little,” France admits.  
  
But taciturnity soon proved itself to be shyness, and poor manners only an ignorance of France’s own beliefs about the correct way to act. He still expected some show of the same raw, untamed power that Scotland always displayed on the battlefield when they did finally share a bed, but had only been given an almost unbearable sweetness, one that very quickly became cloying.  
  
Scotland had subverted every expectation France had of him on first meeting, and, to his shame now, France had been disappointed as each one fell.  
  
Scotland nods once, as though France has simply confirmed what he already suspected to be true, and then suddenly starts moving again, but away from the bed rather than towards it. He strides over to his chest of drawers and pulls something which rattles metallically from the drawer where he keeps his underwear.  
  
France knows what it is, even before Scotland presses it into his hand: an old tea caddy, so shabby with age and thoughtless handling that it almost looks to be nothing but plain tin, only a few chips of paint remaining in some of the deeper dents on its surface to suggest that it had once been covered by an elaborate, colourful design. He’s seen it many times in the past – in England’s house, too, before Scotland moved – yet never been invited to look inside before. He’s only begun to wonder what might be within in recent years, but given how carefully Scotland guards it, even from him, had concluded it must be something Scotland didn’t want him to see.  
  
“Open it,” Scotland says. It doesn’t sound like a request.  
  
The lid lifts easily, despite the poor condition of the rest of the box, which suggests some care has been taken to ensure its good fit, or else it has been removed with such regularity over the years that it has worn the metal beneath it completely smooth. The first thing France sees when he sets it aside is a small bundle of papers; the topmost one, at least, covered in his own handwriting.  
  
“The letters I sent you,” he guesses, running his finger along the silky blue ribbon which binds the bundle together, “while we were apart.”  
  
He can’t imagine that they are the reason for Scotland’s secrecy as it comes as no real surprise to discover he’s kept them; after all, France still has all the replies Scotland sent to him in return, many months later.  
  
“Aye,” Scotland confirms gruffly. “And do you recognise the ribbon?”  
  
France hadn’t even thought to speculate about it. He shakes his head.  
  
“You left it in England’s parlour after we signed the Entente Cordiale.”  
  
France does have a hazy memory of visiting England’s parlour that day, but Scotland is nothing but an even murkier blur within it. He can’t remember what they might have spoken about, what he might have done, only that he’d found the parlour’s décor was as crass and tasteless as he’d always imagined it would be, and he feels a faint echo of the malicious glee he’d experienced then, sneaking into somewhere England had always taken great pains to deny him access to.    
  
Scotland sighs loudly when he makes no reply, and then leans over to pick up the letters. “What about all that?” he asks, pointing to the random bits of junk revealed underneath.    
  
There’s a small penknife with a broken blade, covered with scratches and a thin patina of rust; an old-fashioned beer mat whose corners are crinkled from damp, the cardboard crumbling; a platinum ring which looks far too expensive to be something Scotland would have bought for himself; and a posy of dried wildflowers, brittle with age, their stems tied together with an uneven bow of green garden twine.  
  
Some of the objects do seem vaguely familiar – the ring especially – but he’s fairly certain he hasn’t seen the others in his life before.  
  
“I don’t recognise any of it,” France says, feeling a little guilty for no real reason except perhaps that it seems so important to Scotland that he find some meaning in this seemingly arbitrary collection. “Scotland, I’m –”  
  
 “Of course you don’t.” Scotland rubs at his eyes with the thumb and forefinger of his free hand, and then drags his palm down his face to rasp against the stubble on his chin as he rubs it distractedly. “It’s all stuff you left with me,” he says, voice hoarse once more. “That you threw away. And I kept it all because it was the only thing I had of you any time you weren’t there in the same fucking room as me. Bloody pathetic, right?”  
  
France doesn’t agree or disagree, nor does he offer an apology. He’s given so many already; enough, he’d thought, that they’d been able patch together a semblance of peace with their past. Or so Scotland had insisted, assuring him that no more would ever be necessary.  
  
Either he was lying, or else there’s some other reason for this demonstration than yet another round of mutual self-flagellation.  
  
“No one happy would have something like this, would they?” Scotland asks, but France gets the impression that the question is directed inwards rather than outwards; that he’s simply working through his own thoughts instead of expecting an answer. “No decent relationship only has this sort of crap to show for it.” He reaches down and gently retrieves the tin from France’s hands, peering down into it pensively. “Angus had a hoard pretty much like this one at his house, hidden under his bed.”  
  
They are, France thinks, getting to the heart of the matter at last. “What has made you think of that?” he prompts softly.  
  
Scotland sinks down onto the bed beside France, pressing his shoulder against France’s as if needing to draw some comfort from the contact before he can reply. “Alain just called Angus an animal.” He laughs, but the sound is harsh and humourless. “I was so fucking angry on his behalf to start with, because I’ve heard that sort of thing so many bloody times over the centuries and I’ve always hated it. But then I realised that that could have been _you_ a few years back, talking about me. Your loyal sodding dog.”  
  
“I never thought of you that way,” France assures him. In the most technical of senses, it’s not a lie.  
  
Judging by the way Scotland’s eyebrows arch, his doleful smile, he doesn’t believe him. “Perhaps you never used those exact words,” he says, amazingly perspicacious, “but the sentiment was definitely there all the same. You knew I’d always do anything you asked.” A chuckle follows, equally melancholy, as he shakes his head. “Anyway, I’m getting side-tracked. I didn’t really mean to talk about us – god knows, we’ve flogged that particular horse down to its fucking bones – I wanted to talk about _them_.”  
  
“What about them, exactly?” France asks, though he thinks he has a fairly good idea given the tenor of the rest of Scotland’s conversation.  
  
“Well, I’ve been thinking about it ever since I saw that stuff in Angus’ house. Then, when I saw how they acted towards each other here…”  
  
Scotland’s voice trails off, and he takes a couple of long swallows of his tea; deep draughts of the sort he would take if it were something a little more potent. It doesn’t seem to settle him in the same way whisky would, however, and he passes the mug across to France with a small grimace of what looks a lot like disappointment.  
  
The offer is casual, a small gesture of unthinking generosity, and even though he has no great love for tea (especially not the type Scotland and his family typically prepare), France accepts it. He has no intention of drinking any, but the mug is hot, and he wraps his cold-numbed hands around it, leaning forward so the warm steam rises around his face instead of dissipating uselessly into the air.  
  
“Alain does seem slightly…” France pauses, casting his mind to their visit to the pub earlier. ‘Contemptuous’, springs immediately to mind, closely followed by ‘patronising’. “Short with Angus,” he finishes, cravenly.  
  
He sees too much of how he and Scotland used to be in the two of them to admit anything else. Although he thinks – he hopes – he wasn’t quite so dismissive and condescending. There are many things he long since chose to forget, however, and even more he chose to never notice in the first place. His conduct may well have looked very different from the outside.      
  
Scotland certainly seems to remember it so.  
  
“Short?” Scotland echoes, sounding slightly incredulous. “Look, he’s enough like me that I know that if anyone else was ‘short’ with him like that he’d likely knock their fucking block off. I would never put up with crap like from anyone else; I never _have_ , except you. Jesus, I couldn’t even tell you why I did now.” He smiles, but it looks self-deprecating. “England’s always insisted I imprinted on you. Like a duckling.”  
  
France wrinkles his nose in distaste. “That sounds disturbingly Oedipal.”  
  
Scotland’s laughter this time is genuine, and the shadows darkening his eyes lift briefly. “Of course it does; what else would you expect from England?” His expression soon grows more serious again, however, and he shuffles a little closer until his arm and France’s are pressed flush from biceps to elbow. “Okay, the analogy might be shite, but… It’s always been different with you, you know that, and I’m guessing it’s exactly the same with Alain and Angus.”  
  
Scotland screws his eyes closed for a moment, and takes another long, steadying breath. “Do you think…? Do you think I should talk to him about it?”  
  
The question takes France entirely by surprise. He can’t imagine Scotland ever being able to bring himself to discuss such a thing with his siblings or closest friends, never mind a man he has known for just a few short days. “Perhaps,” he says, hedging his bets, “though I had been given to believe that you yourself never took very kindly to being offered any advice about the subject.”  
  
According to Wales, he, England and Ireland had all tried at various times and in various ways, but had all unvarying met with a refusal to listen and, ultimately, abject failure.  
  
“Aye, that’s true enough,” Scotland says ruefully. “But with them here it’s, I don’t know, almost as if someone’s held a mirror up to my life and I’ve only just noticed how fucking ugly the reflection is. It makes me feel like I can’t just sit back, do nothing, and keep on watching him make the same mistakes I did, you ken. Not when I know how bloody easy it might be to change things around.”  
  
It sounds a perfectly logical, and even more compassionate, impulse, except, “We already know Alain is hardly my twin, no matter how alike we look. There’s absolutely no guarantee that his feelings for Angus are even remotely similar to my own for you.”  
  
“I know, and that’s what’s stopped me sticking my oar in before now. Well, that, and I don’t really fancy the thought of Angus breaking my nose for being an interfering twat. Besides,” Scotland’s face reddens slightly, barely visible in the dim light, “I still don’t know why you came back to me, so I’m not really in the best position to be giving anyone any advice on that score.”  
  
This, too, surprises France. “We did talk about it, _mon coeur_.”  
  
Scotland frowns. “No, you gave me a load of guff about fireworks and the like, and I pretended to understand because you were getting pretty pissed off that I kept asking.”  
  
Scotland is by no means an unintelligent man, but he can occasionally be emotionally stupid. France suspects that many centuries of keeping his own feelings hidden away, even from himself, and denying them in others has rendered him somewhat incapable of understanding their intricacies unless they’re explained to him in the baldest possible terms.  
  
“I simply meant that I didn’t recognise what I felt for you was love until I had to face the possibility of losing it.” It’s embarrassing to admit without the cushioning protection of figurative language, and France stares down into the mug of tea to avoid accidentally meeting Scotland’s gaze. “It was nothing like I’d always believed love – romantic love – should be.”  
  
Which was passion, lust, and need, all consuming and desperate, not slow-growing warmth and steadfast comfort; something deep and endless.  
  
“That would be the fireworks, right?” Scotland asks, uncannily voicing the exact direction of France’s thoughts once again. “Which would make me the river.”  
  
Deep and endless.  
  
France nods.  
  
Scotland appears to ruminate on this for a time, fingers running restlessly over the duvet covering France’s legs. “But there are fireworks sometimes, aren’t there?” he asks. “Like the occasional display on the bank for bonfire night or something?”  
  
France laughs. “Of course there are. Everything’s perfect, _mon amour_.”  
  
He looks up, and Scotland’s eyes are clear once more, bright with happiness and creased at their corners with the breadth of his smile. “I’ll remind you of that next time I leave my clothes on the bathroom floor, shall I?”  
  
Before France can protest, Scotland captures his mouth in a kiss.

 

* * *

 

  
Later, when the room is fully dark and the bed is a great deal warmer, Scotland says, “I think I might give Wales a ring in the morning, see what he thinks about the whole Angus and Alain thing. I mean, he helped you out with me, didn’t he? With the whisky and the poem and all that.”

It was more than that, much more, but Wales didn’t have to ask for France to know he should never share most of what they discussed back then with Scotland.

“That sounds like a good idea,” France says, slipping an arm around Scotland’s waist and pulling him closer. “If nothing else, speaking to _Cymru_ always seems to help settle your mind a little.”

Scotland’s back stiffens against France’s chest. “No it fucking doesn’t,” he growls.

It’s far too late to argue, and France knows this to be a particularly unproductive line of discussion at the best of times anyway, so he stays quiet and presses his smirk to the back of Scotland’s neck, disguised as a kiss.

 

  


* * *

Later still, when everything’s quiet save for the soft, slow lub-dub of Scotland’s heartbeat, and the weight of France’s muscles is pulling him inexorably down into sleep, Scotland’s voice rumbles beneath his ear, “I’m not what you would have picked, though, am I? If you’d had a choice in the matter.”

The image the question summons to France’s mind is a lithe and delicately beautiful sophisticate; one who knew all the right people and said all the right things. He’d been with many such people before, however, and not one of them had held his interest for much more than a year, never mind more than a thousand.

“No,” he admits. He’s too tired to lie, and Scotland would never believe him, anyway. “And I doubt you would have picked me either.”

France half-expects Scotland to voice an immediate and unequivocal denial. Five years ago, he probably would have without thought, but so much has changed since then. Tonight he laughs softly, a dull thunder roaring through his chest, and says, still chuckling, “Naw, I would have chosen someone who could tell plagioclase from fucking quartz for a start.”

Sometimes the heart is far wiser than the head.


	3. Chapter 3

**January, 2013; Edinburgh, Scotland**

  
  
Sometimes Scotland wonders if he ever really had a mother. Not because he’s ever longed for the embrace of one, nor yearned to hide his face in her cleavage to block out the frightening world around him, it’s more that he’s always imagined she might have had answers for the questions that have plagued him throughout his life. ‘What are we?’ ‘Why are we here?’ ‘Why did you have to breed so much?’  
  
His first question would likely have been a timid, ‘how can you tell when somebody _likes_ you?’ because he’s never been able to tell. He thought France did, once, but he’s growing surer that he was somehow fooling himself.  
  
He’d never have imagined he could be wounded so badly; physical pain he can endure, and the pain of rejection had scabbed over, but he’s been picking at it, finds the wound is starting to sting and he has no idea what direction he needs to go in to stop it getting infected.  
  
The only thing he can muster up is to keep his eyes on the moon, remembering that he once told his little brothers – who were too small to understand the concept of death at the time – that their mother had gone to live there, that she watched them every night to make sure they behaved.  
  
If that were true, however, Scotland is sure the moon would have collided with the earth long before the British Empire rose up. Yet it is a comfort, the kind of comfort that doesn’t quite go away, the kind that gets woven into magic and lingers in the backs of memories.  
  
Regardless of how he stares, the moon remains silent and overcast by cloud.  
  
The soft white fur of a cat brushes against his skin, the animal – likely just finished shitting on Other-Scotland’s car or some such – fussing around his palm and purring in that overly sweet way, letting you know the cat wants something and that you should just go ahead and feed it if you want the affection to continue.  
  
The thing about cats is, the second they get what they want, they cease to take an interest.  
  
The white bundle is a relatively small cat even by Scotland’s standards, and the name on the collar gives away its name: the same Tiddles he’d lifted before. He scoops it up and rubs its ears and chin.  
  
As much as Scotland wishes he could avoid it, he really likes cats. There’s something more primal about them than dogs, something about their aloof, independent natures and sandpaper tongues that just melts him into a useless lump.  
  
Tiddles allows herself – Scotland can only tell the gender after the cat sticks it’s rear in his face and shoves its head against his collar bone – to curl up on Scotland’s lap. The purring doesn’t stop, but it sounds distinctly impatient, even if the warmth from Scotland’s skin is apparently a fitting reward.  
  
“Do you think they’re up there?” Scotland asks, though the cat looks deeply offended by the question and sinks her claws a little deeper into his skin. “I told my brothers once that our father was the sun, but I have no idea who that could even be.”  
  
The cat offers nothing but a wide yawn, showing off razor sharp teeth before an obsessive bout of paw licking commences.  
  
“I used to think it might be Rome, but I don’t think that’s right.” Scotland gazes back up at the moon. Somehow he can imagine the story of his mother and Rome still playing out up there, the ancient woman stalking Rome even during the day, using his glow to illuminate herself and waiting for a moment, even just a small one, to extinguish his flame.  
  
Which changes the context of a total eclipse a great deal, but brings Scotland no closer to deciphering his next move as regards to France.  
  
The thought occurs to him, if only briefly, to ask Other-Scotland. This is dismissed as quickly as it comes, replaced with the gentle running of fingers on white fur.  
  
Definitiveness is just one of those things he always imagined he had, but the game of chess he’s been playing with France for all this time – he wasn’t even aware it was chess till now, he’d have called it a game of patience – is one that he doesn’t know how to play correctly and all definite moves are hidden deep within the rules somewhere, in a language he can’t read, on an invisible bit of paper.  
  
All he can do is be angry at somebody. Anybody will do. He could be angry at Other-Scotland, who possibly worked out the rules or some other nonsense. He could hate his brothers a little more he supposes, maybe Wales for perhaps understanding all the mushy stuff Scotland never did, or England, for his honesty.  
  
Better yet, he could hate Ireland. France seems to openly prefer him and always has.  
  
The thought does occur to him, that hating France might be the most logical course of action. The only thing that stops him is the faded image of the man’s smiling face and the interwoven strands of affection that wrap themselves tight into a friendship bracelet that refuses to come off.  
  
He has a hard enough time functioning after France leaves, and he imagines he might stop working completely without his own fondness pumping around his system.  
  
Scotland starts to massage his temple with blunt fingers, trying in vain to untangle the knots that have developed there, caused by an excessive of immersed thought and second guessing. Whatever it is Scotland decides to do, he imagines he needs to do it quickly.  
  
The whole adventure, every thought and every word, make him feel deeply fatigued, but it’s a very deeply buried sort of tiredness. The sort that he doesn’t think a good night’s sleep will be able to shift.  
  
The tired sigh he exhales is shared with nobody but the moon and with Tiddles, who soon abandons him for some unknown calling without explanation or a backwards glance.

 

* * *

 

Despite being gone for almost an entire day, France doesn’t seem too concerned about where Scotland could possibly have been in the intervening time they’ve been apart. He’d actually wandered aimlessly until he’d ended up in the middle of a field with some cows and only his finely tuned sense of direction to get him home.

It’s nearly dark now, and Scotland is much messier than when he left – his hair is decorated with various twigs and his clothing a little torn and muddy from his desire to go through obstacles rather than around them.

France looks him over before screwing up one side of his face.

The small surge of pride and happiness at seeing France again – it’s always present, always overpowering and always turns him into a boy, no matter the years that pass – makes him grin widely and he lets out a rather hopeless sounding coo of, “So, did you miss me, _A ghrá geal_?” The term of affection is born only from hearing Other-Scotland using similar language and his brain had started to lose focus on all of his anger and softened.

The affectionate name only causes Frances nose to wrinkle a little more, he either both knows what it means and hates it, or he hates it because he doesn’t.

Scotland feels himself start to slowly sink where he stands, like a large muddied child being reprimanded by his father for staying out too late and ruining his Sunday best. He attempts to fix this by holding out his hand and offering out a brilliantly smooth white stone that had caught Scotland’s eye. “It’s quartz.” The explanation is given quickly, insistently.

Frances’ eyes start to glaze, moving only so they can share their distaste with both the rock and Scotland’s features.

Despite himself, and all his knowledge of how this has gone each and every time, Scotland pushes forward with his explanation. “See how round it is? I thought it looked like the moon and –”

“It’s filthy.” France carefully pushes Scotland’s hand away with the back of his own. “Is that where you’ve been all this time?”

“Aye.” Scotland retracts his hand carefully, his fingers easing around the stone. “I needed to clear my head.”

The gentle shake of France’s head causes the neat ponytail his hair is tied up in to sway, glittering despite the lack of a real light source.

“So childish, _Ecosse_.” France turns neatly on his heel, tilting his head slightly. “Please go and clean yourself up, you’re a mess.” Then he wanders away, likely to wash his hands.

The word’s Scotland hears however, are ‘You’re a pig’ and it takes sizable effort for him not to wrap his hands around France’s throat and squeeze until he’s got some control back. This desire catches him unaware, but luckily his hands don’t strike out on their own like they normally do.

Instead his hand tightens around his rock, his treasure, until he swears he’s broken it down into nothing but grit.

“ _Ecosse_?” Other-France's words filter in through his skull after what appears to be several calls. Other-France has his hair down, and his expression is the same small look of disgust his own France wore, but this one is edged with some degree of concern.

Scotland frowns upon seeing it.

“You missed dinner, we wondered where you were.”

The first instinct Scotland feels is one that he can’t stop. He pushes the white stone into Other-France’s hand, feeling faintly ashamed that his hand has not only left a dirty smear in the other man’s skin, but also made him flinch slightly, because his skin is rough and unpleasant to the touch.

He also displays the same bemused expression France had as he speaks. “I suppose that explains where you went. There are leftovers in the fridge if you're hungry from your –”

“A brave warrior was walking down a dark path,” Scotland starts, rendering Other-France's face a picture of utter bafflement, making him blink heavily at the interruption. “Eventually, in the dead of the night, the warrior came upon a weeping dragon. The warrior asked the dragon ‘Why are you crying?’”

“ _Ecosse_ , are you feeling quite alright?”

“The dragon turned it’s face towards the sky and said ‘I’m crying because I’m in love with the moon,” Scotland feels his mouth kink downwards, his lungs empty of all their air before slowly filling up, “but she’s so far away, and we can never be together.’”

* * *

 

**January, 2013; Cardiff, Wales**   


 

The meal set out for them by Romano is a welcome one, the sort of meal Wales imagines the Italians of both dimensions might sit down to regularly. Perhaps it’s just something he associates with the Romantics, but it seems fitting. There’s a stack of garlic bread and what looks like freshly grated cheese to go with the creamy sauce and wide bowl of cartwheel shaped pasta. The food looks so delicious – and Wales’ stomach feels suddenly so empty – that he considers invoking niceties to their own Romano, as even his foul moods might just be worth a hearty meal. He’s also heard that the Italian sex is quite good, but hasn’t been drunk enough thus far to ask.

Romano, however, doesn’t look at all pleased when Wales offers his compliments: ‘This looks really good, it smells even better.’

Wales also has trouble not eating it all far too quickly, though he admits he only starts to taste it at all once the heaviness of the coloured pasta hits his stomach and makes his hunger feel less frantic.

It was mainly the long walk that had caused it, with its sudden eruption of joyous talk of poetry, music and how pretty the winter sky looked with the clouds slashing orange in the sunset. Apparently it had turned into some endless tirade, as Romano had described it as such quite openly, then commented on how slow a walker Ireland was even compared to Other-Wales.

And Ireland must be as hungry as Wales is himself – he said as such on the way back – but when Wales actually takes pause to check how he’s enjoying the meal, he looks almost offended by the contents of his plate.

“Is everything alright?” The question is merely a ruse to push Ireland into the task of eating, because if he’s not pressed now, he’ll likely wait and eat everything else in the kitchen like some potato dependant locust.

It’s apparently this that has annoyed Romano, because he glares at Ireland from the corners of his chocolatey brown eyes and waits to hear the answer.

Ireland responds by stabbing his fork into a tube of the pasta and rotating it, like it might be some weird creature he’s never encountered before. He then looks to Wales helplessly and frowns. “Why is this pasta green?”

Wales can’t help snorting with laughter, not because of the question itself, but the gormless expression on Ireland’s face, the one that only forms there when faced by odd food items (which, to Ireland, can be mostly anything he can’t eat for breakfast or locate on a local farmyard).

“It’s pasta, you idiot,” Romano answers for him, sounding offended for the pasta, his county as well as his cooking.

“Well, yes, I can see that.” Ireland waggles his fork as if to dislodge the offending carbohydrate based tube off the end. “But it’s fucking green.”

“It’s just like normal pasta, _Éire_ ,” Wales assures him, “except they add a little parsley into the dough.” Wales takes pause to look to Romano with what he hopes is an expression begging him for input. “It is parsley they use, right, Romano?”

The desired arc of conversation doesn’t pick up as Wales had hoped, Romano proceeds to turn his sour bulldog face on him instead. “If by them you mean me, then no. It’s spinach.”

Ireland also wrinkles his face up and reluctantly shoves the single scrap of food into his mouth. He chews slowly and winces as he swallows. “I don’t like spinach.”

“It doesn’t taste any different.” Wales sighs and looks to Other-Wales mournfully, apologising for his elder brother’s aversion to anything new as regards to food. Especially since he’d had nothing but praise for the more conservative meal of lamb and potato Other-Wales had prepared. It must be exceedingly insulting to Romano’s sensibilities. But then again, what the fuck isn’t?

“Well, I think it’s delicious.” Wales then takes another mouthful to avoid the act of actually saying anything. He feels himself almost die from the wave of deliciousness. “And you made your own pasta, that’s really impressive. I can barely –”

“It’s nothing special,” Romano scoffs and rolls his eyes. Though Wales can’t imagine he’d have taken such care over the whole meal if that were the case.

“He made chocolate pasta once,” Other-Wales cuts in, as it to defuse the small wave of annoyance Wales feels slink across his own face at the abuse. “It went really well with the game sauce.”

Wales isn’t sure why, but he instantly falls in love with Romano at the very idea of chocolate pasta. While he’s not overly fussed on sweet things, chocolate is one of his truest weaknesses, especially the kind that gets itself infused with ginger, mint and orange, as well as the extra creamy sort that always goes missing as soon as it’s within five feet of his brothers.

“Have you ever tried that chocolate covered bacon?” Wales quickly asks as he gently tears a wide slice of garlic bread in two. “America sent some to England once, horrid stuff.”

“That sounds vile.” Other-Wales grins and studies the red coloured pasta on his fork. “And thus exactly like something America might do.”

“He really likes bacon.” Wales shrugs. “He sent me bacon infused salt once, and jellybeans. Then he and Canada made maple syrup, and pancakes infused with bacon bits.”

“Sounds like a perfectly legitimate way to get violated in the mouth,” Ireland states, just before forcing himself to take another mouthful of pasta.

“Usually they both argue endlessly, but when they made those cupcakes? Never seen two brothers so delighted with one another.”

Romano blurts out a snort of humourless laughter and rolls his eyes, making some comment or another under his breath that seems directed towards Wales and Ireland, but the details of it goes unheard.

The phone decides to ring at that moment and other-Wales excuses himself – and his reddened face – to go answer it and Wales turns his attention back to Ireland, who appears to be eating but giving not real clue as to how much he actually enjoys it.

Whether or not Romano cares much about Ireland’s opinion is unclear but his attitude towards fine dining does appear to be testing his patience slightly.

“So, chocolate pasta… How exactly does that work? Do you melt a bar of Cadburys into it or something?”

Romano appears to mull this over before shrugging. “Sure, why not.”

It takes Ireland exactly two beats to look up from his food, lean back in his seat and look to Romano with the most serious face Ireland has likely ever worn. “That doesn’t sound delicious at all,” he says, his voice almost hilariously grim at the prospect. “But I think I remember our North Italy making something similar for Germany…”

* * *

 

The phone call is, of course, from Scotland, who seems to have an uncanny ability – perhaps involving magic of the very pettiest kind – to time such interruptions perfectly with Wales’ mealtimes.

“I was just in the middle of my dinner,” Wales chides.

Any normal person with even a modicum of good manners would take this as their cue to apologise for the intrusion and enquire about a more suitable time at which they might ring back. Scotland, however, says, “What the fuck are you doing eating this late?” Scotland himself sounds to be at the pub, judging by the distant clinking of glass on wood and low background hum of music and conversation on the other end of the line. “It’s nearly nine o’clock.”  

It’s a mistake to encourage him by engaging in any way. Wales should just put the phone down and get back to his pasta before it’s ruined by getting too cold, which is hardly likely to win him any favours with Romano considering all the effort he went to in order to prepare it.

“Romano always has his dinner around this time,” he says instead, though he’s not entirely sure why. A touch of defensiveness over Scotland’s slightly sneering tone is his best – and only – guess. “It’s pretty normal on the Continent, isn’t it? Surely _Ffrainc_ does the same.”

“Aye, when he’s at home,” Scotland scoffs. “When he’s staying with me, we eat at half six, same as I always do. It’s called compromise, Dylan. Perhaps you might like to try it some time.”

Not too long ago, Scotland seemed to believe compromise was a dirty word, and would have eaten where, when and what France decreed they should, no matter whose house they were staying at. For all his claims to possessing a photographic memory, Scotland does appear to have forgotten a number of things quite easily of late, and that, coupled with his smug satisfaction about the heath of his and France’s relationship, has begun to grate on Wales’ nerves.

“I think you’re probably the last person on Earth I should be taking any relationship advice from, _Yr Alban_ ,” he snaps, annoyed by Scotland’s presumption.

Scotland’s short huff of laughter suggests he’s not offended by the churlishness of the response, however. “Point taken,” he says. “Actually, that’s sort of why I rang. Just give me a second…”

The pub noises muffle for a moment, as though Scotland might have placed his hand over the mouthpiece of his phone – Wales thinks he hears James’ voice ringing out for a moment, nevertheless; a sound which always briefly fills him with a strange mixture of guilt and nostalgia no matter how regularly he still speaks to him – then are soon replaced by a low rumble of passing traffic and the insistent beeping of the signal on the Pelican crossing just down the road from the Red Lion.

“Right,” Scotland says, clear once again, “the thing is –“

The crash which reverberates out from Wales’ dining room is loud enough to both interrupt Scotland all the way up in Edinburgh and lead Wales to believe it could only have been caused by Romano.

Wales groans. “I should go and see what’s just happened,” he says. “It’s probably best if you call me back later. Maybe give it an hour or so, okay?”

* * *

 

Whilst the disagreement which precipitated the crash was over quickly enough that Wales arrived too late to discover what caused it, he was unfortunate to be caught right in the middle of the subsequent argument over pudding.

Romano had made some delicate confection of spun sugar, cream and fruit that Wales had thought was almost too beautiful to eat (but that also smelt too delectable to resist). Other-Ireland, however, regarded it with just as much suspicion as he had the pasta, and his dubious expression added to the tentative explorations he made with his spoon had reignited the remnants of Romano’s anger which had evidently still been smouldering after the debacle that had closed the previous course.

Eventually, Wales had had to order both of them out of the house to cool down. Not that Other-Ireland had seemed particularly heated – bemused, mostly, that a dessert could provoke such vehemence – but Wales had thought it only fair that they both get exiled for a while seeing as though they were both contributing to his burgeoning headache, regardless.

Outside, Other-Ireland had wandered one way for what looked like a gentle stroll whilst he smoked, and Romano in the other, although his was more of a flounce and Wales pities any of his neighbours who might be unlucky enough to cross his path.

It has left Wales utterly drained, with pounding temples and a sour taste at the back of his throat that he would probably ascribe to a flaring ulcer if he were human. Very similar, in fact, to how he usually feels after dealing with Scotland and England when they’re both being particularly bellicose.

(The similarities Wales has occasionally noticed between Scotland and Romano are slightly disturbing at times but an observation he has kept to himself, for fear it might somehow find its way back to Ireland’s ears.)

He’s almost relieved to be able to return to the washing up, despite not being fond of the task as a general rule. His hands always end up painfully wrinkled, and he invariably nicks himself on some sharp bit of cutlery lurking at the bottom of the bowl, even when it gives every appearance of being empty. It is, however, comparatively relaxing in its simplicity, as is Other-Wales’ company.

Somehow, Other-Wales knows not to try and engage him in conversation until he’s settled into the uncomplicated rhythm of scrubbing and wiping and the wire of tension which has pulled taut through his body begins to slacken. Even then, the conversation is easy, avoiding any raking over the coals of the altercation just passed, but picking up the tails of the one they had been engaged in on their walk earlier; comparing the work of their favourite poets.

The thought strikes Wales as his counterpart picks up a tea towel and sets to work drying without being prompted – a virtue shared by practically no-one else of Wales’ acquaintance – that if he’d met a nation a little more like Other-Wales during France’s humiliating match-making enterprise, he likely wouldn’t be stuck where he is now: burdened with a strange pseudo-relationship with someone he isn’t even sure he likes half the time (and whom he’s fairly sure doesn’t much like him _all_ of the time), yet somehow unwilling to relieve himself of it.

He’d be far better suited to someone a little quieter and more thoughtful, who would perhaps recognise that the beauty of a sunset can just as easily be captured by words as in paint, and -–

Wales cuts himself off when he realises the idea is exactly as weirdly narcissistic as it is unwelcome.

He blames the stress.

* * *

 

“Do you suppose those two will be alright out in that rain?” Other-Wales asks, his eyes fixed on the gloomy scenery that’s barely visible amid the downpour, his hand just about pushing the curtains aside. “I shouldn’t have evicted them, maybe we should go look.”

“I’m sure they’ll both be fine,” Wales replies, unsure about the fact, but still not compelled to go outside in his borrowed pyjamas, or to change out of them. “They’re probably standing under the same tree beating one another with sticks.”

Other-Wales laughs, but it’s guilty sounding and followed by a dropping of the curtain and a reprisal of his paper and pen. “I suppose there might be a good metaphor in that if we chase it up a bit.”

Wales nods and allows his pen to slide gracefully across the paper, his inspiration running high and free after all the discussions of poetry and music. “You know, I’ve never actually written with anybody like this before,” he admits timidly, fearing mockery or worse, some insinuation that his writing is bad enough to deserve isolation. “I once submitted work to Austria but he said it was asinine.”

“Sounds familiar.” Other-Wales sits his arse down; the only thing separating them is a slew of used papers. “It is nice to just enjoy the evening. I still can‘t help but feel a little guilty, though.”

Wales gently pats his companion’s arm and offers him a smile, knowing that any argument for or against Other-Wales’ decision will not help anything. “A little water can’t hurt them. We can only prepare some warm towels and boil the kettle.”

Other-Wales opens his mouth, pitches himself to his feet and strides off, a call of, “You should write that down!” coming along just after Wales realises his words have been taken more literally than expected.

He immediately does write it down, expanding a spider diagram out of things that ease the anxious soul on wet miserable nights (the sound of a fires crackle, blankets warm and fair, the chorus of a lover’s voice and all that lingers there).

His thinks about pulling a line in from a previous poem – inspired by talks of Scottish countryside and barrenness, of thistles, and whistles, of birds on morning air – but can’t quite shoehorn it in without breaking the sense of atmosphere.

“Say, _Cymru_?” he calls out, scribbling a little picture of England look damp and unhappy. His mouth twists into a sinister feeling smirk.

“Yes?” The sound is punctuated by the muffled thump of towels falling to the floor and Wales immediately rises to investigate when he hears an irritated swear. He gets to the task of helping lift the mess when he finds it.

“I was trying to think of a new way to form the image of the Highlands but all I’m getting is thistles and grey rocks.”

“I’d focus on the scale and the colours of the sky. Even the dullest places on earth can have the most luscious of skies.”

“I suppose I could use shadow and form to emphasise the--” Wales realises he’s writing two separate poems and omits his thoughts on the matter. “What about a sense of warmth, I mean.,. On a night like this when the rain is pouring and you listen to the patter of the rain and watch the glow of the fire?”

“I personally enjoy a hot bowl of soup,” Other-Wales says, allowing Wales to put his share of the towels back where they belong. They feel warm and soft to the touch. “It just gives me that warm throbbing feeling, especially if a blanket and some chocolate is involved.”

“Well, you can’t go far wrong with chocolate.” Wales chuckles. “And all by candlelight, to accentuate the large, all consuming heat of the...” Wales holds up his hands to try and emphasise the size, barely able to stop himself from emoting all over the place, but he pauses slightly as he catches sight of a single sopping wet figure and feels himself drain of all colour. “…Shadows.”

“What the fuck are you two talking about?” Romano says, his face as gloomy and sodden as the rainwater that accompanies it. He glowers between the two, taking in every nuance, every inch and every detail and Wales has to pull his hand away from Other-Wales’ arm, where it had come to rest as he’d grown helpless in his love of the spoken and written word.

Other-Wales swears silently to himself before turning and offering out a towel. “We were merely discussing the craft,” he says, watching as Romano roughly starts drying his hair, abusing it like he might possibly be redirecting his anger.

Or just putting it on display, it’s honestly quite hard to tell.

Wales decides to excuse himself, amending his plans to making tea and skulking away to his borrowed bedroom where he and his snuggley pyjamas can do no further damage. It does occur to him that his brother is still somewhere outside, but all concern is washed away by the ever-present memory of Ireland standing under an umbrella with Germany, a position to which he apparently wasn’t invited into but acquired anyway.

It’s also one of the most exceptional photographs of Ireland, taken by Japan and somehow finding its way onto Wales’ bedroom wall.

He has to shake such a thought loose, partly because he’s caught himself staring at that photo a few times and the memory is embarrassing at best, disgusting at worst. There’s also the reminder that he might never see it again, its image stuck in there, but imperfect and fading with each day.

He quickly fills the teapot with hot water and gets to work filling mugs. He decides to make Romano coffee as a peace offering.

As soon as he totters into the living room to offer everyone the tray, he’s greeted by Romano’s angry voice, “Why the fuck are you still dry?!” His frustration is contrasted by the ever neutral face of Ireland, who still looks rather bemused, a white plastic bag in hand and an unlit roll up still in his mouth.

Ireland's clothing is only mildly damp – practically bone dry – not dripping as Romano was. This doesn’t seem to please Romano.

Ireland shrugs, lips cracking apart into a sunny smile that’s left other nations weak at the knees and hating him for being so controlled. “I got stuck under a tree when the rain started and one of the neighbours rescued me,” he says. “I helped her move some furniture for the kindness.”

“You made friends with the neighbours?” Other-Wales stares at Ireland, round-eyed and almost taken aback.

“Aye, she said I looked too skinny and made me eat cake.” Ireland promptly strides over to Wales, making him blush softly when that smile is turned on him. “When I told her I was staying here she gave me this.” He then pulls out a plate with a few pre-cut slices of what looks like very rich chocolate cake upon it, covered by a layer of cling film.

“You really shouldn’t go around chatting up the neighbours,” Wales scolds, prompting Ireland into latching a powerful arm around his neck and dragging him close – the tea rattles but luckily doesn’t tip over – into an affectionate but overwhelming hug.

“I never turn down the kindness of a lady,” Ireland wheezes, his breath has the tang of alcohol and a slight tinge of colour lingers on his face where it normally would fade. “Especially not one who offers me cake.”

Judging by Ireland’s mild instability and clinginess, Wales can only sigh and shake his head. “Did she offer you the booze too, or did you pilfer that like you do at England’s house?”

“I never steal from a lady.” Ireland fixes his attention on Other-Wales, but not letting go of Wales’ shoulder, likely forgetting that his brother exists as he so often does. “I like your neighbour, she’s very nice.”

“You just helped her move furniture and ate cake?” Other-Wales asks, apparently suspicious of Ireland’s motives.

He nods, releasing his grip on Wales so he can set the cake down and rummage around in the bag he’s been holding. “I also went to the shop up the road and I got this.” The tub of ice-cream is held aloft like a mystical artefact. “I think it’s Italian, but I can’t read it properly.”

Wales can only see that the tub of ice-cream is pistachio flavoured, which happens to be his favourite kind – though most flavours please him in small doses – he’s certain that he’s never actually told Ireland that, so it must be a coincidence.

What it does suggest is Ireland trying – with the limited capacity his mildly drunken mind possesses – to appease Romano, but it looks like the offering is merely salt in the wounds, making Ireland’s kindness feel irksome and uncalled for by connection.

Wales is quick to set the tray of tea and coffee down before opting towards pushing Ireland into the kitchen. “I think we should put that in the freezer and get you some tea,” he says, and Ireland’s scrawny frame moves only because he isn’t stubborn enough to hold his ground.

It’s likely a good thing he did that too, as Romano is starting to look as though nothing would please him more than to fell Ireland like a lumberjack might vanquish a flimsy pine tree. The clash would however end badly, Ireland being much more powerful than his weedy limbs suggest. His skill at fighting finely tuned despite his placid temperament and his desire to win unquenchable once he’s got a taste for it.

Especially when he’s been drinking.


	4. Chapter 4

**January, 2013; Cardiff, Wales**

  
  
After he’s locked the front door and watered his houseplants, there’s just one last thing Wales needs to do before he retires to bed for the night.  
  
He slips a coat on over his pyjamas, shoves his feet into the first pair of shoes he comes across (possibly Scotland’s, as they’re several sizes too big and have holes in both soles; his brother quite likely left them behind ‘accidentally’ to avoid the agony of having to make the decision to throw them away), and grabs a box of cat food from the windowsill in his kitchen.  
  
Outside, the rain which had left poor Romano looking like he’d taken a tumble into a river by the time he returned from his prolonged strop around the neighbourhood – Other-Ireland, by contrast was bone dry and content when he eventually fetched up, having been taken in by Janine next door to wait out the downpour, and supplied with a prodigious amount of whiskey and freshly baked chocolate cake throughout – has slowed to a light drizzle, and the sky seems to have cleared, leaving the quarter moon overhead bright enough that Wales doesn’t have to go digging around in his shed in search of his ever-elusive torch,  
  
Each of the four bowls Wales has set out by the back wall of his garage are filled to the brim with water, and he empties out all of them before starting to refill the first with biscuits. The dry rattle they make as they fall against plastic prompts an answering rustle from the privet hedge to Wales’ left, one which he carefully ignores. His nocturnal visitors are skittish even after more than a decade of this nightly routine, and likely to forgo feeding if he startles them, no matter how hungry they might be.  
  
By the time Wales has moved on to the second bowl, the rustling has moved to the patch of perennial geraniums in the raised flower bed, the leaf-strewn lawn behind him by the third, and when he reaches the final bowl, a small furry head butts against his arm, subtly urging him, he imagines, to stop faffing about and greet its owner properly.  
  
“ _Helo_ , _hardd_ ,” Wales coos, earning himself a slightly aggrieved sounding meow from the small tortoiseshell cat, who is perhaps his most regular – and certainly boldest – visitor.  
  
He smiles, carefully setting his box aside so he can give her his full attention. She pushes up against his hand as he eases it out towards her, and then flattens out, long and low, as he strokes it from the back of her neck all the way to the tip of her tail. He can feel every bump and trough of her spine beneath her damp fur, and every thin slat of her ribs as he moves to tickle her side.  
  
He worries that she’s even thinner than the last time he saw her, but, sadly, knows there’s not really anything he can do to help her beyond what he already does. No matter how loudly she always purrs, and how tightly she always wraps her body around his legs, as soon as he makes a move to pick her up, she will disappear in a flurry of teeth and claws, leaving him nursing at least one shredded limb if he doesn’t let go quickly enough.  
  
And, besides, even if she could be coaxed to stay, there’s the small matter of the _gwyllgi_ , which, for all that it’s a spectral being of great magical power, is still at the end of the day a dog, and seemingly programmed to give chase to all things cat-shaped. Until it decides to move on to pastures new – and given Wales’ habit of feeding it table scraps, that isn’t likely to be any time soon – Wales’ house isn’t going to be hospitable to any further pets. (This might be, he tentatively admits, a good thing, as he’s not certain that he could stop at simply giving one stray a new home, nor even one dozen.)  
  
So he has to content himself with keeping the local strays as well fed as he can, and showering this little cat with as much affection as she will allow. She seems particularly magnanimous tonight, however, going so far as to clamber up into his lap when he sits back on his haunches, presumably so that she can better rub her cheek against his.  
  
For the first time, she even allows him to slip one arm beneath her stomach without attempting to take a chunk out of his hand, which makes him think that he might take her inside finally; give her somewhere warm and dry (and safe from the _gwyllgi_ ) to sleep, even if it is only for one night.  
  
Of course, given the usual shoddy state of Wales’ luck, his mobile chooses this exact moment to start ringing.  
  
The sudden noise startles Wales, largely because he’d forgotten he’d left the phone in his coat pocket, but not as much as the cat, who hisses at him before springing up and haring away across the garden, the hair on her back bristling.  
  
Wales swears loudly, rubbing his hand over his thigh where the cat’s claws have left stinging furrows through the thin fabric of his trousers, and then fumbles the phone out of his pocket. The name it displays comes as absolutely no surprise whatsoever, even though the call is several hours overdue.  
  
“Impeccable timing yet again, _Yr Alban_ ,” Wales says as he answers it.  
  
There’s nothing but silence from Scotland for a time, eventually broken by a rough clearing of his throat. “Jesus… Well, you can spare me the details.”  
  
If Wales had sex as frequently as Scotland seems to think he does, he’d never have time to do anything else. As an imaginary love life is the only one Wales currently has, however, it always gives him a little buzz of pleasure whenever he fails to correct this particular misapprehension of his brother’s. He lets the silence gather again for a moment to prolong his enjoyment for just a little while longer  
  
“I’m guessing you wanted to ask me something earlier, _brawd_?” Wales asks finally, when a twinge of guilt starts to grow in satisfaction’s stead. “Before we were interrupted.”  
  
“Aye,” Scotland says, in the slightly dazed tone of someone whose thoughts had been wandering far away from the conversation in hand and thus finds themselves shocked to be addressed directly. “Aye, I did.”  
  
Nothing follows, though, but the muted tick tap of blunt fingernails against some hard surface or other. Wales holds his tongue when he hears it, because his brother only ever lashes out if pressed to talk when he’s unsettled, or else clams up even tighter.  
  
Then Scotland’s voice lurches suddenly back into life; rough but determined, as though he’s made a decision and means to stick to it come what may. “What would you say to someone who’s…? Well, _you_ know they’re in a pretty shitty relationship but they can’t seem to see it.”  
  
Wales is a little touched that his brother would be worrying about such things. “Romano and I are –”  
  
“I’m not talking about you and your horrible boyfriend,” Scotland cuts in emphatically. “Fuck’s sake, I’ve already told you I think even you could do better than that wanker. I’m talking about…” His voice drags reluctantly again as he almost whispers, “Angus and Alain.”  
  
The unexpectedness of those names makes Wales forget to be annoyed by everything else Scotland had said. “What’s wrong with them?”  
  
Whatever it is, Wales can’t help but fear that Scotland might have had something to do with it. They’d seemed fine last time Wales had seen them, albeit a fine that he measured by a completely different yardstick because they were a version of Scotland and France, which was fairly fucked up by any other measure.  
  
Or at least had been up until a few years, in his brother’s case.  
  
Wales thinks he might see where the problem lies.  
  
“Everything that used to be wrong between France and me, I suppose,” Scotland says, confirming Wales’ suspicions.  
  
“What makes you think I’ll be of any help?” Wales asks. “I wasn’t much use to you, was I?”  
  
All his concern had netted him was a couple of shoves, a lot of evasion, and a warning that if he ever tried to hug Scotland again, he’d be well on the way to parting company with his teeth.  
  
“You never are,” Scotland says, but in an offhand way that suggests the insult is merely reflexive, as most of them are these days. “But you talked to France, didn’t you? Helped him work things out?”  
  
There’s a hopeful note to Scotland’s voice, but it’s an expectation that Wales, regrettably, can’t fulfil. “I didn’t really do anything beyond helping him write a poem,” he admits. “He’d already made up his mind what he wanted; he just didn’t know how to go about getting you to listen to him long enough so he could tell you what it was.”  
  
He’d also lent France a sympathetic ear on several occasions, learning more about his relationship with Scotland over the course of a few weeks than he’d gleaned from his brother over the course of centuries, but it’s in both his and France’s best interests, perhaps, that Scotland never find out that particular fact.  
  
“Oh.” Scotland’s sigh sounds disappointed. “I can’t imagine poems are going to be much use in Angus and Alain’s case. Especially not yours,” he adds, a touch of levity returning to his voice. “Actually, they’d probably just make everything _worse_.”  
  
“Thank you, _Yr Alban_ ,” Wales says. “As ever, your reasoned literary criticism is invaluable to me.”  
  
“My pleasure.” Scotland’s chuckle is rich and genuinely amused, but quick to fade, nevertheless. “Any _decent_ ideas would be gratefully received, though. From what I can tell, Alain was a bit of a dick last night and Angus stormed off; didn’t turn up again till this evening.  
  
“He managed to pick up a lovely piece of quartz whilst he was out, though, which I’ve ended up with because no-one else wanted to keep it.”  
  
Wales had come into the possession of a small rock he still keeps in one of the chests in his attic under much the same circumstances, and the association hits him hard, making his chest ache slightly. He suspects the same memory has been dragged to the surface of his brother’s mind, given the underlying hint of sadness he had heard in his words.  
   
“Perhaps you should just take him out for a quiet drink, and try to steer the conversation around to Alain somehow,” Wales says. He’s aware it’s a pretty weak suggestion, but given that nothing he’d ever tried with Scotland had made him take a step back and re-evaluate the way things were with France until he was ready to do so himself, he doubts there’s any strong ones when it comes to Angus, either. “You never know, he might actually ask you for advice.”  
  
He very much doubts that, and judging by Scotland’s burst of sceptical laughter, so does he.  
  
“That’s what France said, too,” he says afterwards. “Can’t imagine it’ll help, but it’s better than nothing, I guess. I’ll see if I can corner him tomorrow, then.”

 

* * *

 

  
**January, 2013; Edinburgh, Scotland**

 

  
When Scotland finishes his phone call, a quick peek out of a chink in his bedroom curtains confirms that Other-Scotland is still loitering in exactly the same position he had been when it started; standing sentry at the garden gate. His expression is lost to distance and low light, but the stiff way he’s holding himself and the high set of his massive shoulders seems to suggest a certain amount of disquiet, though even that Scotland couldn’t swear to, as Other-Scotland’s superior posture makes his body a difficult book to read.

It would be the perfect time to make that offer of a drink – Other-Scotland had been smoking earlier, but now seems to have nothing better to do than contemplate his own navel as far as Scotland can tell – but Scotland’s resolve has all but crumbled by the time he arrives at the front door, and the few tatters that remain aren’t even strong enough to support his arm so that he can reach for the handle.

Scotland consoles himself with the thought that the plan likely wouldn’t even have worked, anyway. There are simply some talents, meagre though they might be, that Wales possesses and Scotland does not, and though the idea sounded plausible coming from him, faced with the prospect of attempting it himself, Scotland finds himself feeling woefully unequipped.

Wales just has this ability to _listen_ in a certain way that seems to inspire people to pour out their entire life stories within moments of meeting him; like he strikes them as an empty vessel that needs to be filled with tales of their childhood traumas, partner’s infidelities, money worries and the like. Scotland doesn’t envy him the skill usually – there are just some things he doesn’t need to know about a person until he’s known them a good few centuries, if then – but now, lacking it, he can only imagine himself sharing nothing but vaguely embarrassed silence with Other-Scotland rather than confidences.

He’s always assumed he simply doesn’t have the sort of face or manner that encourages intimacy of that sort.  

Still, he can’t quite bring himself to turn away from the door, either, because he has to do _something_ , and listening still seems like the best chance he’s got.

His attention is finally wrenched away from cataloguing the knots in the wood of the door frame – twenty-six; one of which looks disturbingly like the screaming face of an unfortunate wood nymph who’d managed to get themselves sawn in half, though reassuringly rather more like a cat being sick if he tilts his head the opposite way – by a thin stream of laughter trickling out from the living room.

He finds himself following it back to its source before he’s even aware of making the decision to do so; instinctually attracted, as he always has been, by the bright clarity of the sound.

The Frances are sitting close together on the sofa, their bodies angled towards each other so that their knees almost touch. Their hands aren’t nearly so demure, fluttering up and down each other’s arms as they talk animatedly in French that is so rapid-fire that Scotland can barely decipher what they’re saying. (He does catch the word ‘ _cul_ ’ several times, which makes him think that’s probably for the best.)

Heat stirs deep in Scotland’s stomach, but he can’t quite discern whether it’s born of arousal or jealousy. He’d dismissed England’s dour prediction that the two Frances would be ‘shagging before the week was out’ to his brother’s face, but knows in his heart that it wasn’t ridiculous enough to be entirely without foundation.

He clears his throat.

Both Frances turn their heads towards him almost in unison, both of them wearing identical warm, welcoming smiles.

Guilt joins the uneasy mix, because Scotland’s beginning to fear that Other-France might have taken a bit of a fancy to him. It’s nowhere near as gratifying as he would have thought it would be.

“How was Cymru, _mon coeur_?” his own France asks, and though the question sounds almost disinterested, the arch of his eyebrows is far more interrogative.

“Okay,” Scotland says, shrugging. “Think we got everything sorted out as best we could.”

Strangely, his answer seems to satisfy Other-France more than his own, and Scotland has to wonder what dire problem France had concocted to explain Scotland’s pressing need to speak to his brother.

“Good,” Other-France says, stroking his hand in a slow, smooth circle across the fabric of the sofa cushion next to him. “Now perhaps you would like to join us for a drink?”

The movement of that hand, the languid slide of those slim, all-too-familiar fingers, is hypnotic, and it takes near every ounce of determination Scotland possesses to wrench his eyes away from them. Once freed, his gaze settles instead on the coffee table, and the uncorked bottle of red wine set upon it. There are three glasses beside it: two filled and one empty.

There’s a danger inherent in those glasses – alongside another large serving of guilt – and Scotland thinks that if he sits down, they’re just going to lead him somewhere he’ll later regret.

Nevertheless, it’s tempting – so very tempting – but he still manages to shake his head. “Naw, I’m going to take Angus out for a couple of pints. Warm him up a bit; he must be freezing his bollocks off out there.”

It’s a relief to have a ready excuse.

“Won’t the Red Lion be closed by now?” France asks. Thankfully, he doesn’t sound as though he’s trying to dissuade Scotland – something that would be rather more difficult to resist – just pointing out his flawed logistics, likely because he’s already guessed the reason for the outing.

Scotland shrugs again. “I’ll figure something out,” he says.

* * *

 

“Are you still up?” The words dribble reluctantly from Other-Scotland’s mouth, his body held a little stiff, as if he’s about to commit some crime he knows Scotland will not be happy about.

Scotland attempts to regain some of the sturdiness of his frame, tightening his spine and rounding up his shoulders before turning to look at the man.

The night might be freezing – there’s not enough cloud cover to hold in even an ounce of the days warmth, not that there had been much and that had suited Scotland fine, because it meant he was free to wander back and forth between here are the Sainsbury’s, trying his best to keep busy. “Well, I’m not sleeping.”

“I thought maybe you’d started having your forty winks outside.” Other-Scotland says. It’s rather on the nose, but Scotland can’t pinpoint the exact nuance behind it and can only swivel his entire body so they’re both facing one another. The movement inspires a long moment’s silence, the kind that enhances every sound: a helicopter, passing cars and a barking dog several houses up (a yappy one). “It’s just, I thought –”

It seems like Other-Scotland wasn’t sure about his thoughts, and they slip into silence a little while longer.

There’s a grimness to the air that Scotland can almost taste. He’s been tasting it for a while, but it seems a little sharper now, and it inspires him to flick at the wheel of the lighter he's holding, his fingers hungry for something to do, but lacking any cigarettes to play with.

He’s already tried magic, but each time he does he’s rewarded with a backlash, like his own magic is being attacked by some form of antivirus. He knows better than to push his luck on that front, as magic has a way of repaying your efforts for the worse.

Other-Scotland’s eyes linger on the flame, his eyes twinkling slightly before some small shift in his expression triggers a chain reaction, quickly becoming a look of fortitude that carries into his words. “Do you want to come get a few drinks with me? There’s still time in the day.”

Scotland eyes the sky, drawing attention to it by sheer force of will, at the overcast moon. “If by that you mean the sun will be rising soon.”

“Well, it’s never stopped me before.” Other-Scotland turns sharply on his heel. “But it’s up to you.”

Other-Scotland’s back offers no explanation as to this bout of friendliness – they’ve not been at each others throats or anything, but neither have they gone out of their way to become especially good mates. Yet the offer of it, the slight spark of companionship falls timidly on the dried out husk of Scotland’s heart and catches there, if only by a tiny smoulder.

His leg shuffles forward without his permission and his lungs empty of their contents, drawing in a fresher, colder breath that merely feeds the glow and makes Scotland open his mouth, words coming after a long reluctant noise. “Aye, alright then. I suppose there’s no harm.”


	5. Chapter 5

The park near Scotland’s house isn’t really very much of one, consisting of little more than a small playground and a football pitch, and both they and the scrubby grass which surround them are littered with errant bits of rubbish that have blown out of the single bin on offer, which appears to get forgotten by the binmen in their rounds most weeks, given that it's always overstuffed.  
  
Scotland always seems to think more clearly in the open air, however, so, no matter the park’s other deficiencies, it still presented itself to his mind as the perfect location to undertake a discussion he fears may be fraught with the potential for disaster by dint of being the closest piece of open greenery he knows.  
  
The entire park is illuminated solely by the weak efforts of a couple of spluttering street lamps and the light bleeding out from a handful of windows in the houses that border it, but its far end is even more deeply shadowed, shaded by a couple of sickly-looking trees.  
  
Scotland sits himself down at the summit of the small hillock sheltered beneath the spread of their gnarled branches – the prospect of being unable to see the finer details of Other-Scotland’s expression if they do touch on the delicate matters he has set out to talk about is a welcome one – and then selects two cans from the six pack of lager he’d grabbed from the emergency supply he keeps hidden away from his siblings beneath a pile of useless scraps of wood and old paint pots in his garden shed.  
  
“Sorry, mate; it's a bit warm,” he says as he holds one out towards Other-Scotland, suddenly feeling a little ashamed about the whole set-up now he’s committed himself to it and it’s too late for second thoughts, because it seems like the sort of thing Northern Ireland would choose to do to occupy his evenings if he had any friends to speak of.  
        
Thankfully, neither the possibility of tepid lager nor the expectation of drinking it in such a setting seems to deter Other-Scotland, as he takes the can and then drops himself down a respectable distance away from Scotland; close enough that they won’t have to raise their voices to speak, but leaving sufficient space that there’s no chance of them so much as brushing elbows accidentally as they raise their arms to drink.  
  
“It's fine,” he says magnanimously. “Ta very much.”  
       
Scotland takes a long gulp of his own lager wet his throat, which is suddenly feeling very dry now that the possibility of actually saying the words he had stupidly decided were essential is upon him.  
  
He can hardly just launch into asking any deeply personal questions about Other-France or Other-Scotland’s feelings towards him – though the idea is tempting, if only because it would mean that the whole sordid conversation was over and done with as soon as possible – but it’s difficult to know where best to start otherwise. Wishful thinking aside, if he’s too quick to get to the heart of the matter, doubtless Other-Scotland will take exception to him poking his nose where it doesn’t belong (and likely break it for his troubles), but if he’s too slow, he’s certain he’ll lose what little nerve he’s managed to scrape up entirely, and they’ll end up just talking about the football or some other inoffensive topic until Scotland’s meagre store of alcohol runs out, at which point he’ll probably bottle it completely.  
  
He drums fingers against the side of his can as he tries to think of an opening gambit, and eventually decides to go with: “So, where did you get off to after the Lion, then?”  
  
It’s not much, but at least it's _something_.  
  
Other-Scotland pops his own can open and rolls it between his hands for a moment before taking a deep mouthful from it. “I just needed to stretch my legs,” he says when he lowers the can again.  
   
Even though it’s liable to send the two of them one of the conversational detours he should be trying to avoid, Scotland can’t help but ask, “Fetch up anywhere interesting?” because the mention of walking piques his interest despite his best intentions not to allow himself to be sidetracked.  
  
He considers appending that Other-Scotland’s decision meant that he’d missed out on a very tasty post-pub snack of... something with eggs, maybe? he really has no clue... that the Frances made, but it still seems too early in the game to be bringing up Other-France in any capacity. He’s not entirely sure of that, though, and that uncertainty make him feel – and not for the first time tonight – that he should perhaps have asked Wales for a little more guidance on how these sorts of conversations are best structured.  
    
Other-Scotland tips his head back, seemingly seeking guidance from the night sky before he replies, “I think I might have trespassed on some farmland.”  
   
“Well, it's easy enough done, isn't it? Hop over one too many walls and before you know it you're staring down the business end of a bull.” A burst of unexpected camaraderie makes Scotland chuckle, as he’s found himself in just such a predicament on numerous occasions due to his determination to exercise his right to roam to its fullest extent, but the rueful amusement quickly dissipates as soon he realises that this might be a good time to make a small foray into more dangerous waters. “Don't suppose you came across any more interesting rocks on your travels.”  
  
Even if his sortie fails, he might at least get some interesting geology talk out of the enterprise to console him.  
  
Other-Scotland shakes his head. “I always seem to lift the plainest ones,” he says, giving a cynical-sounding bark of laughter which is quickly smothered by the next swig of lager he takes. He then pulls a dull, grey shard of rock out of his pocket, which he quickly drops into Scotland’s free hand.  
  
It’s a piece of flint, heart-shaped and chipped along its bottommost edge where its colour lightens to a pale tan. Scotland flips it over in his palm to test its weight, before slowly closing his fist around it. It digs deep into the base of his thumb, but isn't quite sharp enough to break the skin there.  
  
“Aye, I've been accused of that a time or two myself,” he says with a small smile. He risks a sidelong look at Other-Scotland, not quite willing to make eye contact with him, but tentatively wanting to watch for some signs of shared sentiment; some slight connection that might help make this whole dreadful business a little less arduous for them both.  
  
“But to my mind, none of them are really plain. Like this –“ he nods his head towards his clenched hand – “might not be the prettiest, but it would have been a handy thing to have back when we were bairns, right?” His cheeks heat slightly with embarrassment as he realises that he might sound as though he ascribes far too much meaning to rocks (which may be the truth, but not one he wants to share with someone who’s practically a stranger), and his voice drops along with his enthusiasm for the subject, becoming little more than a murmur as he finishes, “There's always something that catches the eye, at any rate.”  
  
“Aye, that wee scrap of rocks been around a lot longer than us, ya ken?” Other-Scotland’s answering smile suggests that something in Scotland’s confidence resonates with him in any case, though perhaps not to any great degree, as it’s rather a feeble one and quick to disappear. “I like to think even the shabbiest ones deserve a passing glance.”  
  
Other-Scotland’s empathetic expression may have been fleeting, but was encouraging enough that Scotland feels he should forge determinedly on in the same vein despite his own discomfort, in the hope that it might yet return.  
  
“Me too,” he says, “although I've never had much luck convincing anyone else of it.” He unfolds his hand and holds the flint out towards Other-Scotland again. “Well, I think it's a good find, anyway.” He pauses for a moment, hesitant about voicing his next comment as he’s not sure it will be a welcome one. It instinctively feels like the right thing to say, however, so much so that, despite his misgivings, he eventually manages to force out, “Like the quartz was, too.”  
  
Other-Scotland takes the flint back and rolls it between his fingers, just as he had his lager earlier. “Well, as long as somebody liked it,” he says, the words hard-edged and clipped.  
  
Even though Other-Scotland’s face is impassive, his grip on his can tightens to the point where the tips of his fingers begin to dig small craters into its surface as the thin metal buckles.  
  
Scotland finds the sight strangely reassuring. He’s still not entirely sure that he’s steered the conversation in the right direction, but at least he now has a sign that his observations regarding Other-Scotland might well have some basis in reality: that he isn’t as unaffected by recent events as the near-constant stoniness of his countenance would suggest.  
  
“The first time I ever tried to give France a rock I'd found for him, he looked at it like I'd just handed him a dead fucking animal or something, and then passed it off to Wales as soon as he had the excuse.” Scotland has never recounted this story to anyone, nor ever discussed with the people involved, and he’s reluctant to share it now, but his inability to shake the impression that his current audience is likely the only one who’ll ever need to hear it gives him incentive enough to continue. “It was a beautiful wee thing, too: river-smoothed basalt with a seam of quartz running through it. Not that I knew any of that at the time, though; I just thought he might like the way it caught the light, same way as his jewels did.  
  
“But, well... It wasn't the same, apparently. Not at all, and I didn't bother trying _that_ again for near on a thousand years.” Scotland wishes he’d been able to extend the lesson he’d been taught there to the other natural oddities he tried to gift France over the years, but he had to learn it afresh with every new piece of driftwood, beetle shell and the like. His foundationless belief that he’d one day find just the right thing to be pleasing had been far too stubborn to yield to either common sense or the evidence of his own eyes, however, likely because hope was all he ever had back then. “Wales no doubt chucked it as soon as I wasn't looking, as well.” He chuckles mirthlessly. “I should have just kept it for myself.”  
  
Other-Scotland’s loosen from around the can, causing a series of harsh pops as the metal dings back into shape in places. “It seems very familiar,” he says, nodding slowly.  
         
“And he's _still_ impossible to buy Christmas presents for,” Scotland says, adding his own nod of acknowledgement. “I have no bloody idea what's a good year for claret or whatever nowadays, and I can't tell my...” He tries to think of two fashion designers he can't tell apart, but fails to recall the name of even _one_ France likes off the top of his head, and so has to just admit that, “I know absolutely fuck all about clothes.”  
  
It’s slightly disheartening to realise how little this aspect of their relationship has changed in the intervening centuries, even though so much else has. Comfort is close to hand, at least, and he drains his lager in one long swallow.  
        
“Makes me wonder why anyone ever bothers,” Other-Scotland says, sounding slightly bitter. He, too, takes a deep draught from his own can before crushing it easily with one hand and then tossing it away with a sharp flick of his wrist.  
       
Scotland snorts with laughter. “Jesus, I wish I knew. It'd certainly cut down on a few headaches, that's for sure.” He passes Other-Scotland a fresh can and then opens one of his own, taking a much smaller sip than before, because god only knows how long they’re going to end up sitting out here before they manage to get even within spitting distance of the point of the whole exercise, so he should at least try and pace himself. “Still, I suppose it does have its perks on the rare occasions I do get it right...”  
  
He trails off, flushing again, as he remembers that it’s possible that Other-Scotland might not get to enjoy those ‘perks’ at any time, never mind when he’s flukily lucky in his gift choices, in which case Scotland probably sounds like he’s just rubbing his good fortune in Other-Scotland’s face for no good reason.  
  
The resulting feeling of unwittingly being a bit of a twat makes Scotland rescind his promise to himself of only seconds ago, and he takes large gulp of lager again.  
      
Other-Scotland heaves out a tired-sounding sigh. “I used to get it right.” The admission is slow; reluctant. “A long time ago.”  
     
“You were doing better than me, then. I think I managed to get a smile out of him all of fucking once up until a few years back.” The words flow out of Scotland’s mouth without any intercession on the part of his brain, and sound ridiculously petty and ungrateful to HIM as soon as he hears them, so he can’t even begin to imagine how pathetic they likely seem to Other-Scotland, given their differences in situation. After a firm mental reminder that he's supposed to there for Other-Scotland to complain at if he needs to, not vice versa, Scotland forces himself to get back on track. “So what changed, then?”  
  
His conviction instantly starts to fail with the realisation that that's a really bloody personal question; one he would refuse to answer himself. He wants to take back every word, but can only add a feeble, “If you don't mind me asking,” and hope it helps mitigate matters a little.  
  
He definitely feels like a twat this time. A nosy twat.  
    
Other-Scotland remains silent for so long that Scotland becomes convinced that not only is he not going to reply, but that he’s deeply offended to have been asked at all; the grim set of his mouth and deep furrows on his heavy brow certainly bespeaks a growing need to do violence to something or someone. Most likely Scotland, given their proximity, but as he doubtless deserves it for his complete lack of tact, he resolves to take whatever Other-Scotland sees fit to dish out without defending himself _too_ vigorously.  
  
Eventually, Other-Scotland stirs himself again, but just enough to say, “I wasn't an ogre when I was younger.” He lets out a tired rasp of laughter followed by a stern shake of his head. “What does it matter to you anyway?”  
   
Scotland doesn’t feel as relieved as he thinks he perhaps ought for the reprieve, because he knows how to deal with fists, he hasn’t the slightest clue what to do with the slight wounded tone his words have managed to bring to Other-Scotland’s voice.  
  
He holds one hand up, palm open, in what he hopes looks like a conciliatory gesture, and tries anyway, because he’s never been one to back down from a challenge, no matter what form it might come to him in. “I don't suppose it does, but... Look, mate, I was in exactly the same place you were, you ken, but it sounded like we got there a bit differently. I was just interested to know _how_ different, is all.” He hopes that by being willing to share this little, shameful part of himself, the intrusion perhaps won't seem quite so egregious. “I mean, Jesus, I was an awkward little sod when I was a kid. Didn't know what the fuck I was doing when it came to someone like France. You've talked to our North, right? Honestly, even he'd seem fucking debonair in comparison to me when I was around his age.”  
  
Other-Scotland scowls towards the ground. ”How we got here makes no difference. Just do me a favour, try not to lose it. Because it hurts like hell.”  
  
“Aye, I can imagine.” Not that Scotland wants to, but the thought is yanked to front of his mind, regardless, and his throat and chest squeeze achingly tight. “Believe me, mate, I never stop trying, but it's still early days, so...”  
  
“Still, no point crying about it, I suppose,” Other-Scotland says, rubbing at his temple roughly with the knuckles of his free hand.  “At least one of us did something right. It's better than nothing.”  
  
“Right...?” Scotland echoes hollowly. He sets his can down beside him, then leans back slightly, supporting his weight with his hands, and looks up at the sky because he can almost pretend Other-Scotland's not there that way. “Aye, I guess so, but... It's probably not what you're thinking. Not sure if I can recommend it, either.”  
  
“And what would you suggest?” Other-Scotland asks.  
  
“Suggest' might be a bit of a strong word,” Scotland clarifies, feeling the need to back-pedal slightly now, as he really doesn't want to steer Other-Scotland wrong or give him any false hope. “I mean, it worked for me, but I don't really know if I'd call it good advice for anyone else.”  
  
“I'm a little out of ideas myself,” Other-Scotland says, sniffing gently. “Tell me or don't; I doubt it'll make much difference.”  
  
Scotland hesitates for a moment, unsure as to what he's going to say – how delicately he should phrase things – but when he opens his mouth, however, the words just seem to pour out of his mouth of their own accord again: “I just got sick and fucking tired of me, him, US, the entire bloody thing, so I finished with him.” He's surprised by how vehement he sounds, even after all this time and everything that’s happened since. “It was only about a thousand years overdue, by my reckoning.” He sighs, and hunches forward a little so he doesn't topple over when he rubs a hand over his eyes, which suddenly feel strangely dry and hot. “And that's all there is. That's what I did 'right', apparently.”  
      
“I think it just backs up the idea that France never reacts to things the way anyone expects,” Other-Scotland says after a long pause. “Still, you did right by yourself. That's admirable.”  
  
The words sound reluctantly given, but Scotland thinks he might hear a hint of something that might be approval softening Other-Scotland’s voice, nevertheless.  
     
“I guess so, but it sure as hell didn't feel like it at the time. Felt like the worst decision I'd ever made to start with.” Scotland straightens up the rest of the way, and grabs his can again, feeling the need to wet his mouth before continuing, because even contemplating the next admission he knows he should make seems a little traitorous, somehow. “But I think it did me good – did us both good – to take a step back for a while. Re-evaluate. I think it was just too easy to overlook some fucked up stuff whilst I was all caught up in the middle of everything. Couldn't see the forest for the trees, and all that.”  
    
“It's food for thought,” Other-Scotland says, not sounding particularly committed to the idea.  
   
Scotland suspects he can understand the reason for his reticence; he would have dismissed the idea out of hand himself had anyone ever suggested it in the past, after all, but: “I guess what you'd have to figure out is whether what you've got now is better than the risk of ending up with nothing at all.” He shakes his head. “I guess I'm lucky because I didn't have to think about it, it just... happened. Don't know if I'd have ever dared to do it otherwise.”  
  
Other-Scotland makes a small sound of agreement, nodding his head. “I think our France has better options than the likes of me.”  
  
Scotland doesn't want to get Other-Scotland's hopes up unnecessarily, but his France surprised him, perhaps Other-France will too. “Maybe, maybe not. Don't sell yourself short, mate.”  
  
The compliment, meagre though it may be, was unthinkingly spoken, and Scotland feels awkward and unsure about having given it the instant it leaves his lips, as he never normally bestows them on anyone other than France. He tries to cover up his embarrassment by cuffing Other-Scotland’s shoulder companionably, and then stares off into the middle distance at nothing in particular, trying to act as though nothing out of the ordinary ever happened.  
  
With any luck, Other-Scotland might mistake the unexpected physical contact as an attack, and be so affronted that he’ll forget he ever heard the comment in favour of starting a good scuffle, thus negating the need for any further conversation.  
  
Unhappily, Other-Scotland’s muttered, “Aye, right,” puts paid to any hopes of either a fight ensuing or any pretence of not having heard what Scotland said on Other-Scotland’s part. He does return the cuff, however, which suggests that Scotland might be forgiven for the unwarranted sentiment, regardless.  
  
His expression, however, is just as unreadable as when they first sat down together, and his few terse words have given very little indication that _anything_ Scotland’s had to say has been of even the slightest use to him. He’s starting to thinks that perhaps he _should_ have sent Other-Scotland off to see Wales instead, because he must have some secret magical word or something he uses to ease these sorts of things along.  
  
On the other hand, Scotland can well imagine what sort of advice his brother would give if he were in Scotland’s place, and the thought of it makes him quail enough to say, “I know Wales would probably say you have to go fucking soul searching or some such shite like that. Or write a list of pros and cons and weigh it all up carefully, but I think, deep down, you probably already _know_ what you want to do. I guess all you really need to ask yourself is whether you can put up with a few more centuries the same as the last. Or even a few more _years_. If you can, then…” He shrugs. “Well, that's your decision made, isn't it.”  
  
Other-Scotland swallows heavily and casts his eyes far away again. The cautious nod of his head and quiet, “Aye, I think it is,” encourages Scotland to believe that, shockingly, he might have finally have said something that Other-Scotland needed to hear.  
     
He’s not entirely sure what it was exactly, or whether or not it's a good thing, nevertheless, it’s immensely gratifying that there seems to have been progress of _some_ sort.  
  
“Grand,” he says, but he can’t bring himself to feel any real pleasure at his success, because now there’s nothing left standing between him and making the offer France had suggested might be a welcome one for Other-Scotland to hear.  
  
“I was wondering if you...” He winces, the words sticking hard and stubborn behind his clenched teeth. He takes a long breath in through his nose, and the deep sigh that follows seems hard enough to dislodge them so he can continue: “If you're still okay with the current... set-up? After... Well, there's always the sofa bed in the study if you want it for a bit, or... I know Wales would be happy to take you in if you want to... get a bit of distance, maybe?  
  
“Not that I'm trying to get rid of you or anything,” he adds hastily, when he realises that his poorly chosen words might sound dismissive, “but...”  
  
But he has no clue how to convey that he couldn’t help but notice that Other-Scotland seems unwilling to even share the same house as Other-France at the moment, never mind a bed, without it sounding as though he takes far too prurient an interest in their sleeping arrangements.  
  
This is exactly why he’s best off sticking to talking about things like football and beer and leaving the mushy, difficult stuff to those best suited to coping with it, like Wales or France.  
  
Eventually, lacking all inspiration, he just gives up, draws his legs towards his chest, and then lets forehead sink down to rest against one knee. “Fucking hell...”  
    
Despite his ostensible failure, Other-Scotland surprisingly sounds thoughtful, and perhaps also a little bit grateful, when he replies, “I might just take you up on that. He'd probably like having the extra space.”  
  
“Well, sod what he'd like.” The interjection is reflexive, and far angrier than Scotland could have given himself credit for before he voiced it. Although he hadn’t been aware of it consciously before, apparently he must be far less forgiving of France’s behaviour when it’s perpetrated against someone else than he ever was when even he was on the receiving end of it.  
  
Other-Scotland’s terse silence indicates that he hadn’t appreciated Scotland’s candidness, however, and he tries to sooth any hurt feelings it may have engendered by adding, “What I meant was that you should probably just worry about what's best for you for once.”  
  
“Right,” Other-Scotland says, sounding dismissive.  
  
Scotland senses he's hit yet another brick wall – his recent success instantly dashed against the hard, stiff line of Other-Scotland’s broad shoulders with just a few ill-considered words – and has to fight the almost overwhelming urge to shake Other-Scotland vigorously by the shoulders. Instead, he simply sighs out dejectedly, “Or you could not. No skin off my nose, either way. Just you let me know what you want to do when you've worked it out, and we'll go from there, okay.”  
  
He hasn’t got the energy for anything else. He feels strangely exhausted, his conviction that he’d made the right choice of action completely depleted, and his throat is distressingly dry. He has only a few disheartening drops of lager left in his current can, though, and he doesn’t think the remaining one he has left to him can contain nearly enough to make up for the shortfall.  
  
“Jesus, I knew I should have picked up two packs,” he mutters unhappily.  
  
“I suppose we could always wander to the off licence,” Other-Scotland suggests. “Stretch our legs a bit.  
  
Scotland grins thankfully. In his experience, there’s no situation – no matter how desperate – that can’t be improved in some small way by a nice brisk walk. “Now that sounds like a fantastic plan, mate,” he says, scrambling to his feet.


End file.
